The Chosen by Chaim Potok
Finally, we decided it was getting late, and we started down the wide marble staircase. When we were about halfway down the staircase to the second floor, Danny stopped and looked carefully around. He did the same when we were going down to the main floor. He replaced the Graetz book, and we went outside.
It was cloudy and seemed ready to rain, so we decided to take a trolley car back rather than walk. Danny got off at his block, and I rode the rest of the way alone, my head full of what we had talked about, especially his teaching himself German.
I told my father about it over the supper table.
“What does Danny want to read in German?” he asked me.
“He wants to read Freud.”
My father’s eyes went wide behind their spectacles.
“He was very excited about it,” I said. “He was talking about the unconscious and dreams. He was also reading Graetz on Hasidism.”
“The unconscious and dreams,” my father muttered. “And Freud. At the age of fifteen.” He shook his head gloomily. “But it will not be possible to stop him.”
“Abba, was Graetz right in what he said about Hasidism?”
“Graetz was biased, and his sources were not accurate. If I remember correctly, he calls the Hasidim vulgar drunkards, and he calls the tzaddikim priests of Baal. There is enough to dislike about Hasidism without exaggerating its faults.”
• • •
I met Danny again in the library later that week, but he wasn’t too enthusiastic when I told him what my father had said about Graetz. He told me he had read another book on Hasidism, and while the author hadn’t accused the tzaddikim of encouraging drinking, he had accused them of almost everything else. I asked him how he was coming along with his German, and he said he had finished memorizing the grammar text and was reading a book he had borrowed from the German section of the library. He said he hoped to start reading Freud in a few weeks. I didn’t tell him what my father had Said about that. He looked upset and tense, and he kept playing with an earlock all the time we talked.
My father told me that night that there had been a serious question in his mind about how ethical it was for him to give Danny books to read behind his father’s back.
“How would I feel if someone gave you books to read which I believed might be harmful to you?” I asked him why he had done it.
“Because Danny would have continued to read anyway on his own. At least this way he has some direction from an adult. It was a fortunate accident that he stumbled upon me. But it is not a comfortable feeling, Reuven. I dislike doing this to Reb Saunders. He is certain to find out one day. It will be an uncomfortable situation when he does. But he will not be able to stop Danny from reading. What will he do when his son goes to college?”
I pointed out to my father that Danny was anyway reading on his own now, without direction from an adult. My father certainly hadn’t told him to read Freud.
My father nodded his agreement. “But he will come to me to discuss what he reads,” he said. “At least there will be a balance. I will give him other books to read, and he will see that Freud is not God in psychology. Freud yet. At fifteen.” And he shook his head gloomily.
• • •
Danny and I arranged to spend Shabbat afternoon together with his father, studying Pirkei Avot. When I turned off Lee Avenue that Shabbat and started up the sunless street on which Danny lived, the feeling of having crossed into a twilight world was only a little less strong than it had been the week before. It was just after three o’clock, and there were no bearded, caftaned men or kerchief-wearing women on the street, but the children were outside, playing, shouting, running. Except for the children, the sidewalk in front of the three-story brownstone at the end of the block was deserted. I remembered how the black-caftaned men had parted for Danny and me the week before, and I remembered, too, the tapping of Danny’s capped shoes on the pavement as we had gone through the crowd and up the wide stone staircase. The door in the hallway that led into the synagogue was open, but the synagogue was empty—except for the echoes it contained. I stood just inside the synagogue. The tables were covered with white cloths, but the food had not yet been put out. I stared at the table where I had sat, and I could still hear the gematriyot tumbling out of Reb Saunders’ mouth and then his question to Danny, “Nothing more? You have nothing more to say?” I saw the idiot grin spread itself slowly across Danny’s lips. I turned quickly and went back out into the hall.
I stood at the foot of the inside stairway and called up, “Hello! Anybody home?” After a moment, Danny appeared at the head of the stairs, wearing his black caftan, black pants, and a black skullcap, and told me to come on up.
He introduced me to his mother and sister. His sister was almost as tall as I, with dark, vivacious eyes and a face almost exactly like Danny’s, except that the sculptured lines were a good deal softer. She wore a long-sleeved dress, and her dark hair was combed back severely and dangled in a thick braid behind her. She smiled at me and said, “I know all about you, Reuven Malter. Danny never stops talking about you.” His mother was short, with blue eyes and a roundish body. Her head was covered with a kerchief, and there were faint tufts of sand-colored hair on her upper lip. They were both sitting in the living room and had apparently been reading or studying what looked to me to be a Yiddish book when we had interrupted them. I told them politely that it was nice to meet them and was rewarded with another smile from Danny’s sister.
We left them and started up the stairway to the third floor. Danny explained that the third floor contained his room, his father’s study, and a conference room. The second and third floors were completely separated, just as they were in any three-story brownstone. They had thought once of moving the family to the third floor, Danny said, so as to avoid the noise made by the people who were constantly climbing the stairs to see his father. But his mother wasn’t well, and a three-floor climb would be too much for her
I asked him how his brother was feeling.
“All right, I guess,” he told me. “He’s asleep now.”
Danny took me through the third-floor rooms. They were identical with the ones in which my father and I lived. Danny’s bedroom was located exactly where my father’s bedroom was, the kitchen had been left intact—to serve the visiting dignitaries tea, Danny said with a grin—the bathroom was next to the kitchen, the study was where my father’s study was—except that one of its walls had been knocked out so that it also included what in our apartment was my room—and the living room contained a long glass-topped conference table and leather chairs. Danny took me into the conference room first—we went through the outside hallway door—then into his room, which had a narrow bed, a bookcase full of old Hebrew and Yiddish books, and a desk cluttered with papers. A Talmud lay open on top of the papers. The walls were white and bare. All the walls were white and bare. I saw no photographs or paintings anywhere, neither on the floor where his family lived, nor here on the floor where he lived and his father worked.
We stood outside his father’s study, and Danny knocked softly on the door. “He doesn’t like me to barge in on him when he’s in there,” he whispered with a grin. His father said to come in, and we went in.
Reb Saunders sat behind a massive, black wood, glass-topped desk, wearing a black caftan and a tall, round, black skullcap. He was sitting in a straight-backed red leather chair with intricately carved wooden arms. A single light bulb glowed white behind its ceiling fixture. The study, with its additional room, seemed enormous. A thick red carpet covered its floor, and its walls were lined with glass-enclosed wooden bookcases jammed tight with books. There were books everywhere—on the two wooden chairs near the desk, on the desk itself, on the wooden file cabinet that stood near the door, on cardboard boxes piled in a corner, on the small wooden stepladder, on the black leather easy chair that stood in another corner, even on the window seat. Many of the books were bound in black, red, and brown leather. One book had been bound in white, and it stood out prom
Reb Saunders told us to clear the books off the two chairs near the desk. The desk stood in almost the exact spot where my father had his desk. Danny sat at his father’s right, I at his left.
Reb Saunders wanted to know about my eye. I told him it wasn’t bothering me at all and that I was supposed to see the doctor this Monday morning. He understood I was not permitted to read. I nodded. “So you will listen,” he told me, playing with an earlock. “You are a good mathematician. Now we will see what you know about more important things.” He said it with a smile on his lips, and I did not feel it as a challenge. I knew I could not match him and Danny in the breadth of their knowledge, but I wondered if I might not be able to keep up with them in terms of depth. Rabbinic literature can be studied in two different ways, in two directions, one might say. It can be studied quantitatively or qualitatively—or, as my father once put it, horizontally or vertically. The former involves covering as much material as possible, without attempting to wrest from it all its implications and intricacies; the latter involves confining oneself to one single area until it is exhaustively covered, and then going on to new material. My father, in his classes and when he studied with me at home, always used the latter method. The ideal, of course, was to be able to do both, but none of the students in my school had that kind of time available to him because of the school’s heavy emphasis on English studies.
Reb Saunders had a text of Pirkei Avot open in front of him. He began to read from it, stopping at the end of each passage. Danny and I took turns explaining each alternating passage. I realized soon enough that the Pirkei Avot text was merely being used as a sort of jumping-off point for them, because they were soon ranging through most of the major tractates of the Talmud again. And it wasn’t a quiz or a quiet contest this time, either. It was a pitched battle. With no congregants around, and with me an accepted member of the family, Danny and his father fought through their points with loud voices and wild gestures of their hands almost to where I thought they might come to blows. Danny caught his father in a misquote, ran to get a Talmud from a shelf, and triumphantly showed his father where he had been wrong. His father checked the margin of the page for the textual corrections of Rabbi Elijah—the same Rabbi Elijah who had persecuted Hasidim!—and showed Danny that he had been quoting from the corrected text. Then they went on to another tractate, fought over another passage, and this time Reb Saunders agreed, his face glowing, that his son was correct. I sat quietly for a long time, watching them battle. There was an ease about them, an intimacy, which had been totally lacking from the show they had put on before the congregants last week. There was no tension here at all but a battle between equals, with Reb Saunders losing only a little less frequently than his son. And I soon realized something else: Reb Saunders was far happier when he lost to Danny than when he won. His face glowed with fierce pride and his head nodded wildly—the nod beginning from the waist and including the entire upper portion of his body, with the beard moving back and forth against his chest—each time he was forced to acquiesce to Danny’s rendition of a passage or to Danny’s incisive counter-questioning. The battle went on for a long time, and I slowly became aware of the fact that both Danny and his father, during a point they might be making or listening to, would cast inquisitive glances at me, as if to ask what I was doing just sitting there while all this excitement was going on: Why in the world wasn’t I joining in the battle? I listened to them for a few minutes longer, and then I realized that though they knew so much more material than I did, once a passage was quoted and briefly explained, I was on almost equal footing with them. I had this time been able to retain hold of the chain of the argument—probably because there was no tension now—and so when Reb Saunders cited and explained a passage that seemed to contradict a point that had just been made by Danny, I suddenly found myself on the field of combat, offering an interpretation of the passage in support of Danny. Neither of them seemed at all surprised to hear my voice—I had the feeling they were surprised they hadn’t heard it sooner—and from that point on the three of us seesawed back and forth through the infinite intricacies of the Talmud. I discovered that my father’s method of teaching me Talmud and his patient insistence that I learn Talmudic grammar—I had painfully memorized an Aramaic grammar book—was now standing me in good stead. I saw allusions in passages that Danny and his father overlooked, and I resolved a contradiction with an appeal to grammar. “Grammar!” Reb Saunders threw up his hands. “Grammar we need yet!” But I insisted, explained, cajoled, raised my voice, gestured with my hands, quoted whatever proof texts I could remember from the grammar book, and finally he accepted my explanations. I found I was enjoying it all immensely, and once I even caught myself reading aloud from a Talmud—it was the grammatical discussion of the gender of “derech,” road, in the tractate Kiddushin— before Reb Saunders realized what I was doing and told me to stop, I wasn’t allowed to use my eye yet, Danny would read the passage. Danny didn’t need to read the passage—he quoted it by heart with mechanical swiftness. It became clear quickly enough that though I was unequal to Danny in breadth, I was easily equal to him in depth, and this seemed to please Reb Saunders enormously. Danny and I were soon involved in a heated discussion concerning two contradictory commentaries on the same passage, and Reb Saunders sat back quietly and listened. Our argument ended in a draw; we agreed that the passage was obscure and that as it stood it could be explained either way.
There was a pause.
Reb Saunders suggested quietly that Danny might go down and bring us some tea.
Danny left.
The silence that now replaced our loud voices was almost uncomfortable. Reb Saunders sat quietly, stroking his beard with his right hand. I heard Danny’s capped shoes in the apartment hallway outside the study. Then the door opened and closed. Reb Saunders stirred and looked at me.
“You have a good head,” he said softly. The Yiddish phrase he used was, literally translated, “an iron head.” He nodded, seemed to listen for a moment to the silence in the study, then folded his arms across his chest. He sighed loudly, his eyes suddenly sad. “Now we will see about your soul,” he said softly. “Reuven, my son will return soon. We have little time to talk. I want you to listen to me. I know that my Daniel spends hours almost every day in the public - library. No, do not say anything. Just listen. I know you are surprised that I know. It is not important how I found it out. The neighborhood is not so big that he could hide this from me forever. When my son does not come home in the afternoons week after week, I want to know where he is. Nu, now I know. I also know that he is sometimes with you in the library and sometimes with your father. I want you to tell me what he reads. I could ask my son, but it is difficult for me to speak to him. I know you do not understand that. But it is true. I cannot ask my son. One day perhaps I will tell you the reason. I know the mind he has, and I know I can no longer tell him what yes to read and what not to read. I am asking you to tell me what he reads.”
I sat frozen and felt a long moment of blind panic. What my father had anticipated was now actually happening. But he hadn’t anticipated it happening to me. He had thought Reb Saunders would confront him, not me. My father and I had acted behind Reb Saunders’ back; now Reb Saunders was asking me to act behind Danny’s back. I didn’t know what to say.
Reb Saunders looked at me and sighed again. “Reuven,” he said very quietly, “I want you to hear me out. No one lives forever. My father led his people before me, and my grandfather before him, and my great-grandfather before him. For six generations now we have led our people. I will not
I sat very still and said nothing. I realized I was sitting on top of a possible explosion between Danny and his father. How long would Reb Saunders remain silent about his son’s visits to the library? And I didn’t like the way my father seemed to appear in all of this—as if he were conspiring behind Reb Saunders’ back to contaminate his son. I took a deep breath and began to talk slowly, choosing my words with care. I told Reb Saunders everything, how Danny had met my father, why my father was suggesting books for him to read, what he was reading, how my father was helping him—omitting that Danny was studying German, that he planned to read Freud, and that he had read some books on Hasidism.
When I finished, Reb Saunders just sat there and stared at me. I could see he was controlling himself with great effort. He covered his eyes and nose with his right hand and leaned forward, his elbow on the open Talmud, the upper portion of his body swaying slowly back and forth. I saw his lips move beneath the hand, and I heard the words “Psychology. Master of the Universe, psychology. And Darwin.” They came out as a soft, whispered moan. He took the hand away from his face and let it drop to the Talmud. “What can I do?” he asked himself softly. “I can no longer speak to my own son. The Master of the Universe gave me a brilliant son, a phenomenon. And I cannot speak to him.” He looked at me and seemed suddenly aware again of my presence. “The pain of raising children,” he said quietly. “So many troubles. So many troubles. Reuven, you and your father will be a good influence on my son, yes?”